‘Thank you. I’m very lucky to have you as my husband.’

‘And Tommy and I are very lucky to have you. Call me when you’re done.’

Michael leaves the room. I hold my baby to my breast with one arm and use the other to reach for my phone.

As expected, my inbox is bulging already. The caterers, the florists, the cake maker, the PRs. This job is extremely demanding. I’d hoped to get six months’ maternity leave when I got pregnant, but this came in a few months ago and I couldn’t turn it down. That’s the trouble when you run your own business, no one pays you for your time off. So I ordered the tablecloths when I was in the labour ward. I sacked a florist while my stitches were being done. I’m everyone’s best friend, but I can be a boss when I need to be.

Michael managed to negotiate three months’ paternity leave because he works for a start-up that sees itself as entirely modern in its approach to absolutely everything. Which is an ironic place for him to work. He is forty-four and not modern. Unlike me – I’m thirty-six but sit in an office with a twenty-six-year-old every day who gives a masterclass on how to be a millennial. But I am grateful for Michael’s random modern job, because it’s meant that I’ve been able to keep up with the level of attention needed to organise the celebrity wedding of the year. And I’m grateful I didn’t have to sacrifice my work, although having to be ‘grateful’ towards my husband hasn’t gotten me any closer to resolving our problem.

I was really enjoying that dream. I put down my phone and slip my hand between my legs. As if he knows what I’m thinking, my baby gurgles and pulls back from my nipple, giving me a judgemental side eye. He’s probably right.